


Sleepless in Seheron

by SongOfErin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Seheron, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-07 03:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14662209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongOfErin/pseuds/SongOfErin
Summary: Separated from his master and dying, Fenris finds himself among the Fog Warriors. He finds they have an awful lot they can teach him and not just about the meaning of freedom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up for spoilers of Fenris's backstory. Although I've had to sort of give it away already in order to give the summary. But never mind!  
> I apologise in advance if I've got any lore wrong. I love Dragon Age dearly, but sometimes I just can't be arsed to hunt down every little fact.

‘Come.’ The magister’s cool voice cut through his reverie and his body slid automatically into action, loping along behind his master like the pet dog he was. Despair and self-disgust lay curled together, two weights in the pit of his stomach, as heavy as the collar around his neck. There were no physical ties binding him to Danarius, but the chains were there nonetheless. The magister cut a wake through the crowds at the dock, resplendent in robes of deep plum velvet, his black and gold hat gliding above the heads of the crowd. People stared at them as they passed, some overawed, most fearful. These people had seen too many atrocities committed by both Tevinter and the Qunari to put their faith in magisters. Fenris returned their gazes steadily, alert for any threat to his master’s person. A child stumbled out of the mass of humanity, right in front him. Its eyes widened with fear and with a squeak, it darted back into the crowd. Fenris tried to loosen the knot that the child’s expression had tied in his gut, but his efforts only seemed to tighten it. His self-loathing rose from its light sleep, caressing him as intimately as a lover.

_What kind of person scares little children just by looking at them?_ it whispered. But then they reached the ship, which was already packed to the gunnels with terrified people. Danarius strode up the gangplank, Fenris pushing aside those who got in their way. One man stepped back to avoid them and stumbled over the edge, splashing down into the dark water. Neither elf nor magister looked around to see if he resurfaced.

‘We’ve no more room,’ one of the sailors said, barring Danarius’s way. Fenris saw his master’s lip curl and recognised the signs of rage: rage that he would no doubt bear the brunt of later on.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Danarius drawled. ‘I demand to speak with your captain.’

‘We’re about to cast off. She ain’t got time to see you.’

Danarius blinked slowly, like a lizard. Then he raised a single long finger and Fenris stepped forward. His fist plunged into the man’s chest, twisted and then withdrew. The sailor fell to his knees, choking and gasping.

‘I wish to speak to your captain,’ Danarius said, his voice deadly calm. Another sailor took off at run, shoving refugees out of his path. The unfortunate man crawled slowly away and despite the crush of people, a space bloomed around Danarius and his slave. Especially around his slave.

After a very short amount of time, the captain was brought. She was a hard-faced woman with hair the same iron-grey as the sea surrounding them. A pallid man hovered at her elbow uncertainly. He was obviously no sailor.

‘There’s no room, magister, no matter who you are,’ the captain said, without preamble.

‘I _will_ have passage from the island... _captain_ ,’ said Danarius, a slight sneer in his voice. ‘You can decide whether it is in the best interests of you and your crew to help me or not. If you lack space, perhaps you should throw some of this riff-raff off.’ He waved a hand at the people clustered behind her.

‘You mean my family?’ she asked, her voice as hard as steel. For a long moment, she and Danarius glared at each other, but eventually she backed down.

‘Very well. Cast off!’ She nodded to the deckhands. Danarius strode forward and Fenris made to follow him.

But the sailors barred his way, pushing him roughly back. His heel hit the gangplank and he lurched backwards, overbalancing as the sailors shoved him once more. His body crumpled and he narrowly avoided following the unfortunate man from earlier. Fenris slid down onto the quay and landed on his hands and knees, panting, just as the gangplank was whisked aboard the ship. He started up and Danarius’s shout of fury reached his pointed ears.

‘That is my property! I demand that you-’

But the captain cut him off.

‘I don’t have room for _you_ , let alone a _slave._ Get yourself another knife-ears, magister!’ Fenris met Danarius’s eyes as the ship pulled away. Utter fury etched itself across his master’s features, blazing hot in his merciless grey eyes. How dare a mere captain deny him his own property, the tool he had polished and honed and enhanced until it perfectly suited his needs? Fenris almost pitied the captain. While Danarius required her ship, she would be safe, but after that…

The mage’s steel-grey eyes were still locked on his own and Fenris shook himself. He needed to follow his master. But at every ship, he was offered only the same response; he was a slave and a knife-ears to boot. There was no passage for him off of Seheron. The sounds of conflict had started soon after Danarius’s ship had pulled out and as they crept closer, so his panic grew. It was the first time the slave had been without his master, without orders to obey. Without someone to tell him what to do.

 

A blast in the next street shook the ground under his feet and sent a cloud of dust roaring out onto the quay, making him cough. It was too dangerous to stay here, that was for certain. He ran in the other direction, away from the approaching explosions. But the Qunari had spread throughout the entire city and as soon as he was away from the docks, they were upon him. Sten and Ashaad, Arvaarad and Saarebas, all attacked him and all were slain. As a Sten caught his arm with his blade, his markings flared blue-white. Their momentary surprise gave him the opening he needed and three horned heads hit the dusty cobbles together. Using the momentum of his swing, he turned upon the Saarebas behind him before it could raise its hand and ran the slave-mage through. A kind of pang shot through him at that. The Saarebas was in exactly the same position he was. But regret was a luxury he had no time for. The dust settled and he ran on. But he had less and less luck the further through the city he got. The Qunari came in bigger waves and he took a number of minor wounds: shoulder, calf, ribs, cheek, forearm. None of them were dangerous on their own, but collectively they sapped his strength, made his swings clumsy. He was nearly at the edge of the city when he rounded a corner and hurtled headlong into yet another Qunari. The horned giant reacted faster than he did and he only just avoided being sliced in half. As it was, a deep gash opened along his chest. Roaring in pain, he attacked. The Qunari parried his blow and cut to the right. But Fenris recognised the feint for what it was and dodged the real strike. But somehow his adversary turned Lethendralis out of his hand and he leapt back, taking another deep cut to his thigh. Lyrium blazing with both light and pain, he phased through the Qunari’s next sweep and thrust his hand through flesh and rib until he closed his fist around the enemy’s heart.

 

He staggered on, hot blood soaking his armour and making his feet slick. But the blood loss wasn’t what was worrying him. It was the saar-qamek that was slowly flooding his body with madness, spreading from the two wounds his last adversary had given him. He barely noticed when the houses finished and the jungle blossomed around him. The mists were heavy and the water-filled air clogged in his throat and obscured his vision.

‘Aargh!’ The cry tore itself from his mouth. Lethendralis, now back in his hand, spun in front of him. Was that a snake descending from the canopy, or a vine? Vines undulating towards him, intent on strangling him. The sword blurred as he fought them back, his swings making luminous arcs in the fog. The trees twisted around him. Like the vines, they were closing in, but his blade made no impression on their bark. He fell to his knees, the hilt of his sword falling unnoticed frorm his hand as he tried desperately to shield himself from the encroaching branches. And suddenly light appeared. His head jerked upwards and brilliant, fiery hope blazed in his chest. But it was extinguished almost at once when he saw who the trees had parted for. A hoarse groan dropped from his dry lips and fear thrummed through him. It was Danarius, closely shadowed by Hadriana. He had not followed Danarius off the island. He had run away. He had _disobeyed_. He would be punished for this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any lore you think is a bit dubious, see the note on the first chapter.
> 
> Other than that, hope you enjoy this one (assuming anyone is following this).

Rayla watched the elf with curiosity and not a little alarm. He could be part of a trap, to draw the Fog Warriors out. It had happened before, after all. She wouldn’t be surprised if the Qunari or the magisters had stabbed the elf themselves. But then he fell to his knees. His deep, slightly rough voice fell on her ears, apparently speaking to a tall fern.

 ‘Please, Master.’ He was begging, cringing, his sword lying forgotten on the ground beside him, blood spilling out of the chinks in his armour. ‘I’m sorry. They wouldn’t let me on the boat. Please don’t.’ He suddenly flinched as though someone had struck him. Rayla couldn’t hold back any longer. She scanned the undergrowth one last time, making sure there was no one lying in wait and the ran to the elf’s side. Verdant eyes, speckled with brown, gazed at her with unseeing madness and she began ferreting in her bag. She recognised the symptoms of saar-qamek. With the Qunari a constant threat, every Fog Warrior carried an antidote to the poison with them at all times. As she administered it, she stared at the white tattoos on the elf’s skin. Every now and then they glowed with blue light. Was he a mage? But no, his build, his sword, his armour all told her he was a warrior.

_From what he’s been saying, he must be a slave then_ , she thought. Rayla took a few makeshift bandages from her pack and tried to bind up his wounds. But the elf, still hallucinating flailed and twisted. She dodged his blows, but fell backwards and he scrabbled desperately at the ground, trying to get away from her. He wasn’t strong enough, however, and he collapsed back to the ground, shuddering. Pushing herself up from the thick carpet of rotting leaves and vines, Rayla crouched over him again, more tentatively this time. His breath was fast and shallow. She bit her lip, hoping she had administered the antidote in time. Shuffling her way round to his head, where she was less likely to get hit, she took off her glove and pressed her palm to his forehead, then bit back a cry. His temperature was so high she could probably have boiled a kettle on him. The Fog Warrior opened her waterskin, wetted another bandage and clapped to his brow. Then she mopped at his face and neck to cool him. But no sooner had she done so then the elf writhed and screamed and she jerked her hands away as his tattoos flared with searing light. Rayla felt her eyes prickle and furiously blinked back the tears before they could fall. It didn’t matter what had happened to him in the past: he would no longer be a slave.

 

 At some point, the texture of the darkness altered. It was no longer the black void of insanity, but the calm waters of deep sleep. Eventually, they parted and he surfaced, his breath short and painful. For a long time, he couldn’t seem to open his eyes, but he could sense someone standing over him. Fenris’s first reaction was to reach for his sword, but he only managed a sort of feeble jerk.

 ‘Ssh.’ The voice was soft, almost calming, except he wouldn’t be calm. When Danarius spoke in that tone, something degrading and humiliating was about to happen to him. When Hadriana spoke like that, the ensuing nightmares would prevent him from sleeping properly for weeks. ‘You need to stop fighting. You’ll open your wounds again.’ The voice didn’t sound like Hadriana, except that it was female. Pieces of memory began to slide back into place. The docks, Danarius’s face as his slave was left behind, the Qunari in the streets and the jungle closing around him. He struggled again. If he didn’t get back to his master… ‘Stop. Please. We’ve only just managed to put you back together.’ Finally, he got his eyes open. An unfamiliar face hovered above his own. A woman, with very short, conker-coloured hair and almost black eyes was peering down at him in concern.

 ‘Who-who are you?’ he croaked, trying to get up. The words rasped painfully out of his mouth and set him coughing. The pressure that had been keeping him down seemed to be coming from her hands and now they rolled him gently onto his side so he couldn’t choke.

 ‘I’m Rayla,’ she said softly. ‘Now lie still.’ He felt her warm breath on his face. ‘And drink this.’ She held a cup to his lips, supporting his head with her other hand, and something bitter trickled between his lips and down his throat. A wave of drowsiness overcame him once again and gradually the undertow pulled him back into sleep.

 

 She looked down at the elf as his eyes closed and felt another stir of sympathy. He was strong, even weakened by his wounds and she had been hard put to keep him in the bed.

 ‘Has he woken yet?’ Tess asked quietly. The healer made her way over to Rayla from the tent flap.

 ‘Yes. Just now. I gave him your brew.’

 ‘Good. He should be fine now, though he’d be dead if you hadn’t found him.’

Rayla continued to gaze at the elf, his snow white hair and the strange markings that flowed across his skin. His angular face had relaxed now from the tortured expression it had taken when he first began to stir. Helping Tess to bandage his wounds earlier, she had seen the other scars that his previous life had left on him. There were far, far too many of them and she felt a kind of kinship with this handsome stranger. She, too, had marks from the more undesirable elements of her past and she had no doubt that he would find it as strange with the Fog Warriors as she had at first.

 

 Rayla was quite correct. As he recuperated, Fenris watched the rebels closely. He didn’t understand why they had saved him and that meant he couldn’t trust them. No one, at least, no one he could remember, had ever treated him with anything but fear or contempt. Certainly, no one had taken care of him, or been kind to him for no other reason than because they thought it was the right thing to do. But the Fog Warriors continued to do so. Rayla, especially, was attentive, even when Fenris was gruff or sullen with her. At last, he thought he realised what it was that drove her to help him.

 ‘I don’t need your pity!’ he snarled at her on the fourth day after he woke up completely. She had just brought him some food he was quite strong enough to fetch himself and the forced bed rest, along with the pitying look in her eyes, had irritated him to the point where he could no longer control his temper.

 ‘I don’t pity you,’ she said, surprised. Hurt showed in her eyes now.

 ‘No? Then why not let me fetch my own meals? I am capable of walking across the clearing. Or does it make you feel better, knowing you helped the poor elven slave?’

 ‘I know something of what you have experienced,’ she replied calmly. ‘You have my empathy, not my pity.’

 ‘Oh? You have been a slave?’ There was a bitter twist in his voice, he knew. He couldn’t believe that this confident, assertive woman had ever had anything like his life.

 ‘No… Not as such.’ Sorrow passed across Rayla’s face like the shadow of a cloud across the moon. ‘I… I was… married once. He was not a kind man.’

 Remorse flowered in his breast and he dropped his head with a sigh, wounds, lyrium and regret all burning him.

 ‘I am… sorry.’

 ‘It doesn’t matter. You couldn’t have known. But my point is that I do know a little, just a little, of what your life must have been like.’

 ‘Yes. I suppose you do.’

 Rayla looked at him for a moment, as though wondering whether to carry on or not.

 ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking. Are your tattoos… special in anyway? They.. glowed occasionally when you were ill.’

 ‘My master, Danarius, branded lyrium into my flesh. It has given me certain… abilities.’ At once, he wished he hadn’t said anything. There was no way of knowing how trustworthy these people were, even if they had saved his life. If word got out, well, there were others who would kill to claim him before Danarius could. And, quite suddenly, Fenris realised he did not wish to return to his master. He had never enjoyed himself in the man’s service, but it had been all he had known. Now he was in a world beyond his knowledge, or even his understanding. Perhaps some of what he was feeling had shown in his face, because Rayla said

 ‘I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want me to. I promise you that.’

 

 Fenris may not have trusted them, but the Fog Warriors certainly had faith in each other. As he grew stronger and moved around the camp more easily, he saw endless, unconscious demonstrations of that trust. There were the couples who disappeared into the jungle at dusk, the way they trained and fought together, knowing they worked as one. But what Fenris found hardest to grasp was their notion of freedom. Rayla and Tess reminded him constantly that he was now free, that he did not even have to think about Danarius if he did not want to, but having a master was too ingrained a habit for it to die an easy death. The Fog Warriors decided everything by popular vote, moving on when the Qunari or the Tevinter forces got too close, staying longer where there were waterfalls or beautiful views. There was not a person there, man, woman, nor child, who accepted the authority of the two armies. Instead, all were determined to drive them both out, to let the Seheronese rule themselves. Once he was strong enough to fight again, he joined their raiding bands, painting his armour and skin white, as they did. The fogs unravelled before them and Qunari and mage fell to their blades and arrows.

 

_Why am I fighting?_ Fenris asked himself about a month after his arrival with the Fog Warriors. _I do not have to fight with them. I have no loyalty to Seheron. I was told I come from here, but I do not remember it. So why do I stay with them?_ Perhaps it was the nightmares. They stole up on him every night, no matter how exhausted he was. At first he wondered if Hadriana was still up to her old tricks, but no. They were more memories than dreams, cruel reminders of what had been done to him. Invariably, he would wake after only a few hours of sleep, sweating and shaking, glancing quickly around to make sure that his master was not there. His tent mates informed him that sometimes he called out in the night and when he tried to apologise, they dismissed it.

 ‘You aren’t the only one who has trouble sleeping,’ they said and as he looked around the camp, he saw many tired faces and not all because they had been loving freely. Rayla sometimes looked as tired as he did and he remembered her words about her husband.

  _Does she feel free from him?_ he wondered as she smiled at him across the camp. _Or does she wake up at night expecting his fist?_ He had hoped that living with the Fog Warriors would dispel the dreams, but if anything, they seemed to grow worse. Sometimes, he couldn’t seem to wake himself up, as though he was trapped inside his own nightmares. Awful memories surfaced during those long, hot nights, memories of the lyrium ritual, of Hadriana’s torments, of Danarius’s twisted desires that had two unwilling partners attempting to force each other. They were all memories he had tried desperately to forget, to put behind him, but to no avail. Like bindweed, they grew thicker, tangling through his mind, ensnaring him, until every free moment was spent in unwilling recollection, whether he was asleep or not and Fenris knew a growing despair that he would never be free of them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to say: I'm sorry about the title of this work, but I just couldn't resist it.

  _What torments him so?_ Rayla wondered. Yet again, Fenris’s eyes had dark shadows under them. She had heard, they had all heard, him crying out last night. None of them mentioned it, because they didn’t want to hurt him even more than he already had been. But Rayla wished he would trust her enough to talk to her, to tell her some of what had happened. From her own experience, she had found that it helped, even if only a little, to have a sympathetic ear. She had hoped that he would gradually adjust to his new life, but although he was now healed and joined them in their fight to free Seheron, he was still separate from them. He contributed few ideas of his own and his habit of obedience meant that he was likely to do anything asked of him, no matter what it was or how it was phrased. She and Tess had talked at length about Fenris, but they had reached no satisfactory conclusion. They needed him to talk to them, but they didn’t dare push him about it. So Rayla’s thoughts circled as she ate breakfast by the camp fire. The rebels were already prepared to set out, daubed as white as the thick fog that was even now stored in tiny, fragile bottles, waiting to be released.

 

 The sentries had alerted the soldiers as soon as they saw the first tendrils come creeping into the camp from the jungle. All knew of the Fog Warriors and all feared them. In the grey light of dawn, the soldiers huddled miserably together, scanning the thickening fog for any sign of movement, their mage leader conjuring bright lights in an attempt to penetrate the swirling mists. But the fog grew so thick that even their own small movements became sinister and the whole company became more and more unnerved until it was almost a relief when a warrior jerked towards them out of the mists. They leapt upon him, hacking the man to shreds before they realised it was one of their own sentries. As this dawned upon them, a cry went up from the rear of the group. Arrows were singing from between the giant ferns and lianas and men began to fall. A group of white-painted rebels sprang from the trees as the mage tried to rally his men, but it was too little, too late. One particularly fierce warrior cut his way through the Tevinter soldiers like a reaper through hay, coming straight for the mage. Strange tattoos blazed on his body and the blows he did not parry appeared to go right through his body without harming him. The mage shot a bolt at him from his staff. The tattoos glowed brighter, absorbing the magic harmlessly. And still the warrior came on. He was close enough for the mage to see his eyes now, see the hatred blazing in them like an emerald furnace. He backed away, stumbling over the warm corpse of one of his men and a scarlet-spattered bougainvillea and conjured a magical barrier with power from his own blood. Through the purplish shield, he could see the elf’s eyes narrow. For a moment, he was safe. The warrior turned away from the mage and continued slaughtering the Tevinter soldiers, but as soon as the barrier failed, he shot towards the mage before the man could lift so much as a finger. His charge took his lethal greatsword right through the mage’s body and the last things the man could see were those burning, terrifying eyes.

 

 The soldier ran on through the jungle. He didn’t care that he was deserting, that his friends were being put to the sword somewhere behind him. He only wanted, desperately, to live. Then he could mourn them. Once or twice, he thought he heard running feet behind him and redoubled his speed. The tales were nothing compared to the reality of the Fog Warriors. He had served the magisters for years and never before had he seen anything like that elf with the blazing blue light beneath his skin. Just the thought of what that rebel could do made him want to retch. He didn’t dare stop long enough to vomit, so he ran even faster instead, tearing through the trees, not caring what direction he was taking as long as he was heading away from the massacre.

 

 In too much pain even to scream, the nameless elf shuddered. The manacles binding him to the table gave not an inch and somewhere above him, someone was laughing. The white-hot lines of agony were gradually creeping down his chest now, as the lyrium was embedded beneath his skin, pinprick by slow pinprick. There was chanting around him and the thick, cloying smell of blood. Not just his own, of course. Danarius chuckled again and there was a wet slice, followed by a horrible gurgling as the unfortunate slave expired. In the crevice of his mind that was not filled with agony, the elf envied that other slave. He wanted it to end, to stop! Oblivion would be so welcome. He never wanted to feel anything ever again. A hoarse sound escaped his throat, barely recognisable as a word. Then it happened again.

 ‘Please... Kill me!’ Danarius and Hadriana laughed.

 

 Gasping and panting, limbs still twitching from the memory of pain, Fenris awoke. It was still the dead of night and he must only have slept for an hour or so. He had tried staying awake, but he relived these horrors so often it made no difference whether he was asleep or not. The tent felt stuffy. Pulling on his leggings, he stumbled outside. The air was scented with jasmine and even the normal screeches and howls of the night time creatures had stilled. He made his way shakily to edge of the camp and leant his head against a tree, his breathing still uneven. Someone moved behind him and he jerked around, hand groping for a sword that wasn’t there, but it was only Rayla.

 ‘Sorry,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

 ‘It’s fine.’

 ‘I couldn’t sleep either,’ she said after a pause. ‘Bad dreams.’

 ‘Oh?’

 ‘Well… memories really. Of Varden.’

 ‘Your husband?’

 ‘Yes.’

 There was a long silence after that and Rayla wished she could fill it. But it was still painful talking about Varden and she didn’t want to press him on his dreams. She had heard him pleading in the next tent. What could be so awful that it made someone beg to die? She shivered at the thought. Perhaps it was unfair to expect him to open up if she wasn’t prepared to do the same. Having made her decision, Rayla took a deep breath.

 ‘He was fond of the bottle,’ she said softly. ‘And even when he wasn’t drunk, he had a quick temper. To begin with, everything was fine. We were craftsmen, potters, and while the business was going well, we were both happy. But then with the war, everything went wrong.’ She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but failed. ‘He blamed me for it. There was nothing anyone could have done, but the debts and the costs and our dwindling supply of customers, it was all my fault. Even his drunkenness was my fault.’ She stopped suddenly, trying not to choke on her own unshed tears. Swallowing hard, she took another deep breath and continued. She told Fenris what Varden had been like when he was drunk, with his moods and his hasty fists. And in return, Fenris found himself sharing just a little of his own experiences. He couldn’t tell her what his dream tonight had been about, it was far too raw and fresh in his mind, but he shared some of the others, told her how Hadriana had tormented him and, how his master used to punish him. It was hard to vocalise what he had felt, but she understood, at least a little. And Fenris found that little was enough, enough for him to go back to bed a few hours later and sleep peacefully for the first time he could ever remember.

 

 Danarius smiled and the slave in front of him flinched at the sight. By the time the tale had come to his ears, the warrior in question was nine feet tall with five heads and bright blue skin that shot lightning bolts in every direction. But under the lavish embroidery of the story, there was a grain of truth and Danarius recognised his own creation when he saw it. It was not some monster that had joined the Fog Warriors of the jungle isle, but his own pet wolf. The creature should have known better than to try to escape. He must know that his master would come back for him, for his skin if not his life. The loss of Fenris had irritated the magister more than he had expected. The slave had been one of his prize possessions, an enormous achievement and now it was loose. The thought of someone else claiming ownership of _his_ property incensed him. Danarius stood and glared down at the prostrate slave, who whimpered involuntarily.

 ‘Fetch the captain. We have work to do.’


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of it, folks! Thank you so much for reading this little thing and have a good week.

 The Fog Warriors were celebrating another victory. They had mourned the loss of their dead and now there was dancing and feasting. Goatskin drums and bamboo flutes sent out a wave of sounds, rolling beats and trilling notes looping around each other like the jungle vines. Laughter echoed between the trees and parrots shrieked overhead as though they were joining in. Fenris stood at the edge of the crowd, still awkward for all that he had been among them some months now.

 ‘Come on.’ Tess, slightly intoxicated, was standing in front of him, beckoning. ‘Dance.’ He shook his head. For now, he was content to watch them enjoy themselves. But Tess refused to accept that. She took him by the hands and dragged him into the dance. He flinched as the contact sent a spike of pain through his markings, but she didn’t seem to notice and, reluctantly, he found himself dancing with her. He wasn’t very good, for the concept of moving simply for the joy of it was still a novel one but, gradually, the muscles in his face pulled his mouth into a very small smile.

 

 Rayla noticed the smile. She had been watching Fenris for most the evening. If she was honest with herself, she had been watching him ever since she had found him. He filled her thoughts, even when he wasn’t there, with the smooth, cat-like way he walked, his lean, muscled body and those incredible, if haunted, eyes. What wouldn’t she give to have him smile at her, in joy and pleasure, for him to be able to forget his past, if only for a moment?

 To her surprise, she found she was moving across the clearing towards the pair.

 ‘May I cut in?’ she asked, unable to stop herself

 Tess, a knowing and irritating grin spreading across her face, said

 ‘Of course!’ She tipped Rayla an enormous wink and let go of Fenris, making her way unsteadily towards a group of friends.

 Rayla stepped towards the lean elf.

 ‘May I?’

 He nodded and she took Tess’s place. As she touched him, she saw something flicker momentarily across his face.

 ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, concerned.

 He was silent for a moment and then he admitted quietly

 ‘It hurts when people touch me. It’s the markings.’

 Ralya’s mouth dropped open in horror and she quickly dropped his hands. No wonder Fenris was always so reserved, always so jealous of his personal space. But then she felt him take her hands again in his. Dark brown eyes met greeny-hazel ones and Fenris’s smile grew slightly wider.

 ‘There are times,’ he breathed, closing the gap between them. ‘When it is worth the pain.’

 She was acutely aware of how close they were, of his warm breath on her upturned face. A shadow of pain lingered in those eyes, but mostly they looked… happy. Her mouth curved into a grin, just as his descended to rest lightly upon it. He was free at last.

 

 Her spiky brown hair framed her face and she looked quite lovely. A few days, perhaps even a few hours ago, Fenris would have been surprised at his reaction to her. But at the sight of her coming towards them across the clearing, he had finally admitted to himself that he felt more than friendship towards Rayla. And then there had been the horror in her face when she realised she was hurting him and _he_ had realised that he couldn’t stand that. He no longer cared if it hurt him, he simply wanted to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her. His tattoos were half-forgotten, because the music was thrumming through his veins, a beautiful woman was in his arms and her lips were every it as soft as he had imagined. Nothing mattered now, not his past and not hers. All that was important was the great surge of unadulterated joy that was coursing through him from a heart that seemed to have grown too big for his chest. Something hot welled in his eyes and seared its way down his face to pool where their cheekbones met.

 ‘Thank you,’ he murmured indistinctly, letting go of her hand so that he could curl his arm around her and bring her closer. ‘My love’.

 

 And then a scream rent the air. The rebels were never far from their weapons and they hefted them now. Fenris had dived for Lethendralis, propped against a tree and Rayla had whisked her bow out from somewhere and already had it taut. Soldiers came bursting through the trees, the body of a sentry falling to the dirt in front of them. The Fog Warriors were well-trained and they did not panic, but closed ranks against the soldiers, anger fuelling the fiery hate that blazed in every eye.  And then Fenris saw him. Making his way calmly, arrogantly among his mercenaries, was Danarius. For a moment, Fenris couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. Perhaps it was another nightmare. For the first time in his life, he prayed, pleaded, begged to anyone who might be listening that it was so. But then the magister opened his mouth and the sound of his voice snuffed out the sparks of hope and freedom that had taken so long to kindle in Fenris’s heart.

 ‘Back away from my property and I may spare your worthless lives, rebels.’

 There was grim silence as the Fog Warriors trained their eyes, and their hatred, on the magister.

 Danarius raised an eyebrow.

 ‘Come now,’ he said, patiently. ‘You must know to whom I refer.’

 Tess spoke over the edge of her shield, now as sober as a judge.

 ‘We don’t give a nug’s arse who you’re referring to. Be gone, now, _magister_ , and _we_ may spare _your_ worthless life!’

 Danarius laughed and Fenris flinched. Only pain ever followed that sound.

 ‘How brave and how very stupid,’ his old master said. ‘Unless you do as I wish, you will regret that, my dear. Now, be a good girl and hand over my little wolf.’

 Tess spat at him.

 His master’s face darkened.

 ‘I will give you one last chance. Send Fenris over here and the rest of you will be able to go on with your squalid lives and your futile struggle.’

 This time it was Rayla who spoke.

 ‘You will not take him, magister!’

 The Fog Warriors set up a great howling cry in agreement and Fenris was stunned all over again by their loyalty to each other, to _him._

 But Danarius merely smiled once more and said, almost tenderly,

 ‘Kill them, my pet.’

 Rayla snorted.

 ‘Do you really think he’d-’

 But Fenris had already obeyed. He turned on Rayla, punching his sword right through her body and cutting her off. He saw the light of love die in her eyes as he betrayed her. Then Lethendralis fell agin her and the Fog Warriors were fighting for their lives, but none could stand against the weapon that Danarius had forged and honed and polished. His master had come to reclaim him and there was no way the man would leave without him. So Fenris struck again and again and when Tess, the last of the rebels, knocked his sword from his hand, he thrust his empty fist into the chest of the woman who had helped to save his life and he crushed her beating heart. Tess dropped to the floor, accusatory eyes turned up to her killer.

 ‘Come,’ the magister said into the silence, as though he had asked Fenris to pick up his bags. The very jungle had stilled, horrified by the elf’s treachery. He didn’t move. He couldn’t, not with blank eyes gazing up at him, the pieces of the ones who had taken him in littered about like fallen leaves. The memory of the child he had nearly bumped into at the docks filled his mind.

  _What kind of person scares little children just by looking at them?_  he asked himself again and this time he had an answer. _The same despicable monster who turns upon his friends._ Because now he finally realised that was what the Fog Warriors had been to him: friends. His vision blurred.

 ‘Come here, Fenris,’ Danarius said coldly. ‘Now. I have already designed your punishment, but do not force me to make it even worse.’ Fenris looked up at the magister, loathing in his eyes, though whether it was for his master or himself, he wasn’t sure. He held the steely gaze for a long moment, his mind blank, but his heart screaming. Then he turned and bolted. He heard the magister scream in rage, but ignored it. He ran like the wolf he was named after, fleet and strong and Danarius and his men were left far behind. The faces of the Fog Warriors swam in front of his eyes, as they had been less than an hour previously. Tess, her face loose and bright with drink, laughing as they danced and Rayla, wonderfully, intimately close, her smile crinkling the corners of her brown eyes. Then the faces changed and he saw their broken forms, Rayla’s conker-coloured hair spiky with pooling blood and the tortured, betrayed expression she had died wearing. A squall blustered in overhead and Fenris didn’t know whether it was the warm jungle rain on his face or the scalding tracks of a thousand tears.


End file.
